The idea that flutters down to me now—that there are both active and passive virtues, virtues of struggle and of acquiescence—pale as it is, like a bleached leaf, I received first, as I vaguely remember it, from the thin straight lips of Jerry—what was his name? —the Presbyterian minister I sometimes heard preach on those occasions when after Sunday school, like a poor wretch, I had to accompany my parents to church.

Jerry. I have only the dimmest recollection of what he looked like, what he said, or even how he spoke, but the memory of his eloquence still warms me like a blush; and I was a bit embarrassed by it then too, I remember, because it didn’t seem proper for a skeptical schoolboy to be moved by mere thoughts, by morals drawn as crudely as political cartoons, especially when I so expressly preferred the funnies on a Sunday.

Life in a pew. The seats were hard, of course, and unless I sat on the rounded edge, my feet wouldn’t reach the floor. The church was plain, the pulpit unadorned, the choir small. I hated the prayers which went on and on while I studied the backs of necks, or the strangely detached toes which had fallen out of my trousers, or the little sheet which stated the order of service. (The sermon might be titled “Our Six Days of Vacation and Our One of Work,” or once, “I’mageddon,” which nobody understood.) I hated the hymns (which I called “hummms” because that’s what I did with them). I disliked the large black numbers in their slots, threatening to measure my minutes. For me, they had some dippy association with my mother playing bingo in a noisy tent or solitairing out the cards. Later, flight numbers would have the same effect. Anyway, the singing seemed particularly humiliating. I hated hearing my father’s voice enlarge itself as we sang on or my mother’s fall away suddenly, as if pushed off a cliff. And I hated handing forward the collection. My father would always put a little manila envelope on the plate. It bore on its face a palely printed picture of Jesus. I felt as though we were being blackmailed. If he didn’t pay, the preacher would point his finger at my father and say: you made your wife weep again; you were cross with your little boy; you cursed cars and other drivers all last week; you have hid the gin; you are in no one’s real employ. O stand and sing, Jerry bade us. O now sing sitting down. O next respond, when I read, with readings. O then approve my well-chosen text; admire the clever twists of my interpretation of it; be amused by my harmless jokes, and O by my cute, judicious, and instructive anecdotes. Yes. I remember he did have a clear, direct delivery which allowed us to follow along like lambs. Young, handsome, wholesome, Jerry was like a milkshake moving creamily through its straw. He turned each point so gently against himself everyone felt full, sweet-mouthed, and kind. I was impressed by the hush he held us in. A Princeton Presbyterian, my father said with admiration. His announcements were crisp; we did not sing more than one chorus, despite the enormous number of verses the hymns had; his benedictions were far-flung though brief; soon everyone was on their feet; the recessional was a relief; in our fancy ensembles and familiar Sunday suits, we were filing out, on our way; and then, as though we were surrendering a ticket stub, Jerry took our greetings at the entrance as we left.